Remnants
by Emerald Embers
Summary: Vorador might have dreamt of Janos' return a thousand times before, but it's still a shock when it happens. Janos/Vorador


Vorador has seen this moment a thousand times before.

Not accurately; he has never been cursed with visions, is thankful for that after seeing the effect of farsight on others.

But he has seen Janos stand in front of him a hundred times before. A thousand times even.

In his dreams.

.

He has watched Janos have his heart returned only to be beheaded by the same mob who stole so many of his own children.

He has seen Janos come back incomplete, sometimes physically torn, sometimes worse than that. He has seen him burnt and bleeding and maddened and broken.

He has seen Janos return perfect, better than perfect, forgiveness on his tongue and ignorant bliss held between his lips.

But these are dreams. They are not what happens.

.

Janos is as breathtakingly beautiful as Vorador remembered but this is not the time to dwell on beauty. Janos' every movement is stiff, uncomfortable. He is barely holding himself in check.

The others would not know, have never had cause to read a true vampire's body language. They focus on what they recognise, on how he holds his arms and legs, the steady breathing of a chest Vorador can still scarcely believe is holding itself together without calloused hands forcing ragged scraps of flesh to cover shattered ribs.

They cannot read expressions into gold-on-gold eyes or the tension in wings missing half their bulk. They do not know how wings like that _should_ look.

He wants to send the others away. He wants to ask, "What did they do to you?" and tear the perpetrators limb from limb.

He defaults to obedience.

Later, he will consider calling himself a coward for that. He'll decide against it.

.

Vorador does not know how to approach Janos when they are alone at last, the fledglings asleep and Vorador never having fully made the transition from diurnal to nocturnal.

Janos' body has simply forgotten how to recognise time.

Neither of them talks for once, conversation seeming trite, so Vorador closes the distance between them and lifts his hand to Janos' left wing, waits for his sire to still before he allows himself to touch.

He strokes along the shaft, thumb pressing in delicately to search for bumps, evidence of fractures old and new. Janos cannot heal perfectly; it is a small price to pay for being alive. Most of the time.

Vorador starts moving his hand down between feathers, feeling his way through to the membrane beneath, and it is smooth, smooth, smooth, destroyed. He reaches tattered edges less than halfway to where the end should lie, and slides his hand out of the enclosure of feathers, looks at the tips of his claws. They are still damp.

"I will heal," Janos says, but it is far from enough to temper Vorador's anger.

Kain has spoken of how he found Janos initially; his form unnatural, monstrous. He, Kain, and many of the older fledglings could shapeshift.

But they were dead. It came at no cost to their flesh.

Janos had shifted because it was the only way he could avoid further damage to his true form; shifting back brought unhealed wounds with it.

"We will slaughter them," Vorador spits. "Them, the demons they control, every last human who let them in -"

Janos seizes his hands, brings them up to his chest, black heart beating again where it belongs, behind warm skin and muscle and a ribcage that is no longer cracked open.

"Only the Hylden should be slain," Janos replies, closing his hands over Vorador's, adding before any protest can be made, "We will need humans for sustenance."

Vorador nods, wishing he could be as pleased by Janos' agreement as he had always expected to be. Instead, he finds himself frowning, pulling their linked hands to his lips and kissing Janos' knuckles. "If there is anything you desire that I can provide, you need only ask."

Janos nods before freeing his hands from Vorador's grip and walking over to the fireplace, the flicker of golden light across Janos' skin as ethereal as Vorador ever remembered. "Might I have a moment alone?"

Vorador has no desire to wrench himself away from his maker, but a promise is a promise.

He leaves the room and forces himself to ignore the sound of tearing cloth and something thudding against a stone floor.

.

He had not noticed the intrusion in his sleep, but Vorador finds himself strangely less than startled to wake with Janos' arms around him, one tight across his chest, the other his stomach, warm breath damp against his neck with every exhale. Willingly taking the risk of waking his sire, Vorador shifts just a little, just enough to take this in up close, still scarcely believing it.

Janos, alive. Broken and bitter, but alive.

His left hand feels clumsy for the first time in centuries as he reaches over his own shoulder, brushes his claws down Janos' neck. He should be surprised that Janos does not wake, should be alarmed at his stillness.

But then, how long have they known each other?

Vorador closes his eyes, concentrating. It is easier to remember with the scent of Janos' breath at hand, but he can remember everything; knows by muscle memory, by his dreams how every inch of Janos looks and tastes. He will learn the new scars in time, learn through grooming the full extent of the damage to Janos' wings.

He daren't ask if his sire can still fly, but those memories are safe too.

Janos does wake when Vorador's hand slips into his feathers, shivers and flinches away only for a moment. Arguments or no, they have known each other for millennia; that depth of knowledge cannot be cast aside in a matter of decades.

"Raziel believed you dead," Janos says at last, his limbs loose but his stomach clenched, tense.

"Then I refused death with all your stubbornness," Vorador replies, turning fully to face Janos, gripping his sire's chin and shaking his head when lips part to speak.

He has not had this in centuries, his last real memories of his sire before these past few hours of blood-drenched skin and a corpse that would not stiffen or rot. Janos opens up easily, breathing for both of them even if Vorador stopped needing that courtesy millennia ago, his lips, his tongue, every softness and hardness the same as Vorador remembered. His dreams had not faltered in accuracy on this point.

When he pulls away the widened black of Janos' pupils is startling, more evident against the gold surrounding them than grey or blue eyes could ever display, and his breathing deeper than usual. Even if he has no intention of taking his own pleasure until he has fed, he cannot resist sliding a hand to Janos' backside and squeezing, relieved of all he had not dared consider when Janos does not flinch at this, slapping his hand away instead. "Not now," Janos says and Vorador nods, the implied 'later' not going unnoticed, watches Janos get up out of the bed.

The improvised shift shows off the sweat glistening at the dip where spine and hips met; and shows off something else too, the magical lighting of the room brighter and clearer than candlelight.

"Hold still," Vorador demands, climbing out of bed and moving to stand behind his sire, pressing his claws to the base of Janos' spine and feeling his way up, not entirely believing his eyes.

He believes this. The feel of scar tissue, Janos' shuddering breaths as he thumbs each raised circle of flesh. Healed punctures.

Vorador has already said his piece, will not say it again, but it sits on the tip of his tongue as he clenches his fists until the claws cut into his palm and presses his lips against the mark closest to Janos' neck.

The Hylden will pay for what they have done.


End file.
